




Cu.o.A-'^l^lQ _ 



FINDS HE MADE JAZZ FENCE 

Philadelphia Architect Hears Wash- 
ington Guide Give Him Fame 

Jlonor ^vliere lioiior's due. 

Tliore'a an arHutectural tribute to 
frenzied "kettle and pan" synoopatiou 
in the capital fity of the United States. 

And Albert Kelsey, the Tliiladelphia 
an-hiteot. during a recent tri)) to "Wash- 
ington, discovered he's responsible for 
it. Here's the story : 

A while back Mr. Kelsey designed 
the I'an- American building in Wash- 
ington. And one of the most delight- 
ful features of it is the ".lade Fence," 
a low wall circling a fountain. The 
wall is reminiscent of tlie picturesque j 
Aztec and is in rich green stucco with 
a wealthy variety of color in terra cotla. 

j\lr. Kelsey was strolling over the 
grounds yesterday when lie happened 
upon a grouit of. sightseers trailing after 
an otficial guide. 

The guide was saying as he pointed 
to Mr. Kelsey's jade fence: 

"Ladies and gentlemen, to your right 
you will observe the most distinctive 
architectural gem in this city of beauty. 
It is known to students of beauty and 
to sculptors and architects as the 
famous '.Jazz' Fence." 

Mr. Kelsey is still chuckling. 



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YUCATECAN 
SCENES AND SOUNDS 



An Address by 

ALBERT KELSEY, F. A. I. A. 
// 

Delivered before 

THE NUMISMATIC AND ANTIQUARIAN 
SOCIETY OF PHILADELPHIA 

ON MARCH 18, 1918, PUBLISHED 
SIMULTANEOUSLY WITH THE 
PROCEEDINGS OF THE SOCIETY 



y 



PHILADELPHIA 

1530 CHESTNUT STREET 

1919 



2,1(0 






n^ 



yn,, U^.fi 




^ 



NQVt i W6 



To the 

HON. JOHN BARRETT 

to whom I owe my introduction to Latin 

America and to many distinguished 

Latin Americans, this little 

volume is inscribed. 

May, 1919 



''It is important, at the present time, to hear in 
mind that the human soul has still greater need 
of the ideal than cj the real. 
' ' It is by the real that we exist; it is by the ideal 
that we live. Would you realize the difference? 
Animals exist, man lives.'' 

— Victor Hugo. 



Doubt not through the ages 
One increasing purpose runs, 

And the thoughts of men are widened 
With the process oj the suns." 

-Pope 



YUCATECAN SCENES AND SOUNDS 

By Albert Kelsey, F.A.I.A. 
Delivered before the Society on March i8, iqi8. 

I went to Yucatan in quest of ideas and local color — not 
merely as a tourist but as an architect with a definite purpose. 
This purpose was to obtain ideas to be used in the embellishment 
and completion of the Pan American garden at Washington. 

The Pan American buildings and their general garden layout 
had been designed and executed in collaboration with Professor 
Paul P. Cret, to whose skill and talent the success of the work is 
so largely due, and when our association, very much to my regret, 
came to an end, I was soon afterwards appointed permanent 
architect. In accordance with the original idea I resolved, pro- 
vided funds were forthcoming as seemed likely, to make these 
buildings and grounds increasingly interesting and more and more 
reminiscent of the aboriginal art of the Western Hemisphere. 

But while I had a clear and definite mission in making the 
journey, and while my ultimate destination was to visit Mr. 
William H. Thompson, the archaeologist, at his home in the 
ruined city of Chichen Itza, I nevertheless went my way eager 
and anxious to be diverted by anything and anybody, and out 
of my experiences come these random observations and stray 
fancies. 

Fancy a rough bleak sea, fringed on its southern horizon 
with a line of tall palms threshing wildly above a row of low and 
colorful houses. Fancy also two or three great warehouses over- 
topped by a modem lighthouse. Then, by way of adventure, 
fancy (for all adventures are more or less fancy) several swiftly 
gliding sharks, an open boat, a rickety pier, a wet and dangerous 
landing; and presto! Mr. Charles Jones, the only other American 
in the boat, suddenly becomes Don Carlos "Hones" — a man of 
local importance, with even his name Yucatecanized. 

All Progresso had come down to see the landing. The women 
wore beautiful single garments called "huipilleas" and the men 
were in tight suits with trousers belled at the feet. Everybody 
was in white. All were clean, gentle-mannered and kindly. Indeed, 
a kindly but not intrusive individual approached me at once. 



12 

"Do you speak English?" I asked. 

" I do that," he repHed with a grin, "for I've been Irish Consul 
here these twenty years." 

"Then you can tell me where I can get some money changed," 
I continued, captivated by his brogue. 

"Sure," he replied softly. "That Mestitzo over there is 
honest." 

And thus, after such an official statement, of course I did 
not hestitate to hand the endorsed native a ten dollar bill, who 
in turn with equal frankness, produced a brand new pack of 
Carranza money from which he began to deal ten dollar bills 
back to me with the skill and ease of a card sharp. Soon the 
transaction took on an air of almost undue generosity, and so, 
when with evident reluctance the money-changer finally stopped 
at nine, I was so pleased that in observing how the honest Irish- 
man's grin had broadened, I did not then realize why he, too, 
was so fully satisfied. 

Ah! it's a happy, bountiful country, I mused innocently as 
a loose little train, without unnecessary haste or obvious ambition, 
drew puffily away from the angry Gulf of Mexico. Long after 
dark it deposited me in the Very Loyal and Noble City of Merida ; 
a city, founded by the Spaniards in 1542, which within a generation 
became wealthy enough for both French and English pirates 
to loot, and even now so fabulously opulent that the newly- 
arrived governor's "voluntary loan" had been levied within 
forty-eight hours without that benighted official having at all 
suspected how far he had under-estimated its tempting possi- 
bilities. 

Yucatan is the land of henequen. And henequen is hemp 
or the sisal cactus from which the best ropes and twines are 
made. It grows in limestone fields. In countless regiments its 
bristling plants flash their pointed blades at both the blistering 
sun and the stony soil as if defying both heaven and earth to 
kill them, but the hotter the sun and the worse the soil the better 
they grow. These plants bristle dangerously but how pleasantly 
they shine! They shine like a sea of silver, and like silver, or 
rather like a sea of well invested silver dollars, they pay regular 
dividends — dividends "beyond the dreams of avarice," daily 
dividends! for their leaves may be, and are, cut every day of 
the year! 

From the car window these vast, level monotonous fields 



13 

looked just as they had looked when I had seen them seven years 
before, but the gayly lighted city seemed, on my arrival, to have 
somewhat changed. The lines of shade trees along its smooth, 
clean streets had grown and the little coaches, drawn by active 
little horses, each wearing a tinkling bell, though still mounted 
with brass plate and still studded with brass-headed nails were 
all painted black, while formerly many had been painted, if not 
indeed lacquered, in the brightest of colors. Yet in general the 
same comfortable and altogether happy air prevailed. Entire 
families were rocking in their own highly colored court yards, 
called patios, or in the wide archways leading to them. Masses 
of roses were blooming under the electric lights, nodding at and 
flirting with every passerby; great trailing bougainvillea vines 
crept and coiled in masses of delightful color, while here and there 
a pink poster peeped out from under a canopy of blossoms, 
and coquettishly announced a gala performance of the Opera. 
All of which, more vivid than a dream, together with the spicy 
intoxication of the soft evening air made it delightfully easy for 
me to fall into the pleasant ways of the tropics. 

Is there among us one to whom such surroundings would 
not have produced the same effect ? For whom the warning that 
a mere revolution was on would not have been completely for- 
gotten as I forgot it? I think not. But, however that may be, 
I soon stood in front of the new and truly distinguished Peon 
Contreras Theatre, a monumental building designed like the 
lovely Mestitza costumes with a proper regard for climatic 
conditions. And though I was still in the street I could hear 
thro' the open doorways and slatted windows the refrain from 
La Traviata, and could glimpse up, over and far beyond the 
landing of the grand foyer stair within, the gilded prosceniimi 
arch and the upper part of brightly lighted stage scenery. How 
alluring ! 

Indeed it is a languorous land of happiness and plenty. 
Only in prosperous, pleasure-loving coimtries — only in Latin 
countries — is modern architecture enticingly conceived, I thought, 
as I ascended those wide marble stairs and passed with a light 
heart between two little soldiers who were standing at attention 
with drawn swords, thus adding emphasis, and dignity, and 
splendor to a fine interior. They wore pith helmets and were 
resplendent in fresh linen uniforms faced with green. They were 
very smart. 



14 

Could it be that once I had had to think before indulging 
in the expense of opera tickets ? Could it be that only a few hours 
ago I had only just enough money for a modest journey? Strange ! 
Yes, it was both strange and sudden, but I had no time to spec- 
ulate, for in an instant I was in the pit of a great opera house 
containing no less than eighty boxes, each overflowing with 
vivacious Yucatecan ladies and gentlemen all in conventional 
evening dress, while above, among other men and women in street 
dress, I saw occasional Mestitzos and Mestitzas wearing the Hght 
and airy costumes typical of the country. 

After the performance I strolled with the throng to a restau- 
rant, which was so crowded when I entered that I was forced 
to ask leave of a Yucatecan gentleman to share his table. Gravely 
but courteously he bowed his acquiescence. I tried a few words 
of Spanish on the Mestitzo waiter without making myself under- 
stood; then French with equal futiHty; whereupon, smiling 
indulgently and with perfect breeding, my vis-a-vis asked in 
impeccable French, and with just a shade of gracious hesitation, 
if he could not be of assistance, and being assured that he could 
be of the greatest possible assistance he translated my order 
into Maya and in this way a pleasant acquaintance began. 

At a little after the striking of one — and how tuneful the 
bells sounded! — we went out under the oleanders in the plaza. 
The stars were burning big and bright, the electric lights blazed 
joyfully; the blossoms smelt deliciously sweet and yet, wholly 
delightful as was this scene and wholly restful as was the lingering 
sound of the old clock bells, I nevertheless noticed that many 
of the blossoms were surrounded by pointed gray leaves fashioned 
like Httle daggers all bristling against a blue-black sky — a sky 
as soft and rich as velvet, and yet a sky too, that, nevertheless, 
somehow suggested a velvet glove holding the town tight in 
its iron grip. And then, just for an instant, I had a feeling of 
uneasiness for it seemed as if the very flowers had sought pro- 
tection and that the town might be crushed at any moment, 
for I now recalled that I had been warned that the revolution 
was on! But such vagrant thought could not long withstand 
the charm of my companion's manner ; the smiles on his bronzed 
face, his cordial courteous words and his smooth manner. How 
clever he was! How smooth! How charming! He handled his 
cigarillo like the true cosmopolitan that he was — everything he 
had to say was spoken gracefully and with knowledge of both 



15 

the Latin and the Anglo Saxon world. I can see him now as he 
drew himself up to his full height, standing in faultless evening 
clothes; with elegance and distinction, he clicked his heels 
together, removed his Panama, stretched out his right hand, 
grasped mine warmly and looking at me almost imploringly 
whispered with a tone of positive entreaty; "May I not do 
myself the honor of calling upon you in the morning, just for a 
little minute, to again press your hand?" And with an ample 
assurance on my part that he might (which by the way he never 
did), with Old World courtesy and with many bows and compli- 
ments on both sides, thus ended the first day of my second visit 
to Yucatan. 

After a few shours sleep I was suddenly awakened by a 
clanging sound, a noise that pierced the darkness like the din 
of savage tribes engaged in battle. As I regained full conscious- 
ness I realized that it was merely the clanging of cracked church 
bells— bells ruined by modem bullets, defiant, decrepit, old bells 
resenting the recent exile of the Archbishop and most of the clergy! 
They rang for a long, long while and thus I had ample time to 
dress and sally forth to their sullen clashing— clink ! clank ! clang ' 

The big white stars still twinkled in the blue-black sky; 
the electric lights still blazed, and here and there an oil lamp 
was being relighted behind tall grilled windows. But all the 
lights had lost their warmth. The air was cold, or at least suavely 
cool, indescribably soft, inexpressibly caressing. And how can I 
describe that smell of damp flowers that was in the air— a spring 
fragrance one may enjoy at that hour, for an hour, every day 
of the year? It was deliciously sweet and alluring, inducing 
action and at the same time producing a sensation of rest and 
recreation. Is it any wonder then that before dawn, great throngs 
in white were drifting to market, or strolling to Mass, or is it 
surprising either that it should be the way of the tropics to rise 
early even after going to hammock late ? 

The smooth, clean streets soon swarmed with life, ease and 
contentment. Did no one reaHze that the revolution was on? 
Apparently not. So why should I? Were not the streets well 
lighted? And moreover I noticed that the paling stars disappeared 
long before the lights in the modem markets and ancient churches ; 
so there was nothing to fear. 

I discovered that anything could be bought at that early 
hour, from gorgeous fish to native jewelry. Before long the 



16 

dawn broke, broke in streaks more vivid than the irridescent 
colors on the dripping fish displayed for sale on the spotless 
sidewalks, more golden than the gold and gilt jewelry, holy medals 
and little saints flashing in many a market stall. It had become 
broad day when I passed under the arcades of the ancient ham- 
mock market, and had turned decidedly warm when I sat down 
to breakfast on the shady side of the patio of my hotel, and there 
peacefully and contentedly watched, first a great zopilote, a sort 
of buzzard, wheeling lazily in the deep blue sky and then my 
Mestitzo waiter, quietly preparing for me a succulent dish of 
cut-up organges and red mamaye engirdled with crushed ice. 

For several days I explored lovely Merida. In the evenings 
I would go out into the suburbs to watch the sunset — a sky of 
burgundy you would like to drink — and there enjoy likewise 
the rising of a lovely mist of amethyst; ascending mysteriously 
from limestone fields almost snow white — a mist, however, full 
of fever and ague if partaken of too freely, so I never lingered 
long. 

The siesta hour of these days was hot — so hot and so still 
that not a blade stirred upon the great drooping palms nor a 
single fringe upon the more delicate and lace-like sea pines. Every- 
thing was still, quiet, absolutely noiseless and motionless! But 
nevertheless, before long, listening intently, I heard a strange 
shifting, sifting sound. At first it was almost inaudible, but looking 
down I observed a thin veil of sand undulating across my shoes. 
Its movement was uncanny and its voice was strangely still. 
I began to feel the presence of unseen things. Where were they? 
Where were they coming from? From the water caves, the dark 
mysterious zenotes that honeycomb the land, or was it merely 
a thin current of air coiling along the surface like a great almost 
invisible snake? I strained my ears and then I could clearly 
catch its voice, and oh, if I could only have understood its archaic 
whispering! If I could only have, then I would have become 
the envy of generations of truly serious and scholarly investi- 
gators, for then I should have learned the hidden secret of the 
ancient Mayas whose ruins I was soon to explore. 

That whispering, whispering, whispering, which seemed 
always full of strange suggestions, not only did I frequently hear it in 
the sifting shifting sand, but late at night when no noise of street 
traffic or clanging of bells interfered I could then hear its ghostly 
murmur around the roots of shade trees — ^but then it was differ- 



17 

ent, quite different. Then it resembled the fairy-hke trickUng 
sound of a tiny stream of water, coming as I aftenvard learned, 
from a modern system of pipe irrigation, which nevertheless, 
carried its message up also from the underworld, from the place 
where the secrets of the Mayas still lie buried. 

Just before dawn on the day of leaving Merida I found a 
great bustle in and about the St. Christobald station. Rich 
planters in immaculate duck and equally neat and attractive 
Mestitzos were starting off to their respective plantations. The 
wholly sanitary wicker-seated cars clanked and rumbled along 
merrily and soon it became light enough for me to see frequent 
groups of Indians, muffled to their eyes in pink and white striped 
scrapes, plodding drearily to work. An hour or so after daybreak, 
tired of gazing at the interminable flat and w^aterless henequen 
fields I turned away and lost myself in my book. The next thing 
I knew I was alone! Looking out of the windows I saw that the 
train had stopped at a little station called Can-sah-cab. All the 
passengers but myself stood together on the platform, conversing 
in nervous tense w^hispers. Aiy inquiries brought out the fact 
that the insurrectos had captured the next station. The Saint 
Jose Hacienda was in flames. Railroad communication had been 
interrupted. Troops had been telegraphed for. Oh, for the pro- 
tection of that brave and honest Irish Consul ! But in his absence 
I took comfort, none the less, in noting that the cantina, a modest 
little drinking place across the track, was called La Tranquilidad ! 

A few hours later an almost empty train proceeded and I 
went with it. 

An anxious crowd composed mostly of Maya Indians crowded 
the bank forming the platform at Tzitas. It ignored me as did 
the Jefe Politico and the proprietors and loafers at the two prim- 
itive tiendas standing on the embryo plaza facing a big naked 
church. But at length (and what a long disquieting wait it was) 
a boy who declared himself indifferent to insurrectos and who 
spoke a clear staccato language full of z sounds, brought a horse 
and agreed to guide me to my journey's end. Hungry and tired 
I immediately struck into the woods the boy trotting ahead with 
my suit case on his back suspended in a sling passed across his 
forehead. We had eighteen miles to go through the wilderness, 
and soon I was surprised not to find the trees larger, though now 
and than a parasitic vine had singled out a great sabota and like a 
boa-constrictor was trying to strangle it, but for the most part 



18 

they were neither very tall nor very dense. Here and there gay 
orchids and dangling air plants grew high above my head, and as 
the primeval glory of the forest unfolded now and then a strange 
tropic bird or a gaily colored butterfly darted or fluttered by. 
At about four in the afternoon a frolicking flock of clouds laughed 
across the sky and it suddenly began to pour. But as the sun 
reappeared as quickly as it went its reappearance brought with 
it a fresh fascination for now the foliage of the forest was jewelled 
with diamonds, and the world once more was flooded with sun- 
light, which I noticed now frequently pierced through to the 
trail in wonderful semi-transparent barriers, or again in myriad 
blades and spears of gold, the latter suggesting a vision of magnif- 
icent Mayan pageantry — an apparition of a gorgeous archaic 
pilgrimage — a glittering cavalcade on its way to the Sacred Zenote 
of the mighty Itzas. 

Night fell. How black a tropic night can be! How deep 
the silence ! But soon the moon rose and we came to a little clear- 
ing, my horse and I, for the guide had at last dropped behind. 
On one side of the trail there huddled a short row of palm thatched 
hovels. The place was too poor for even a single light but, attracted 
by the clatter of my horses hoofs, in every open doorway I dimly 
saw a surprised and curious family — the whites of their big fur- 
tive, gentle, black eyes standing out with appealing distinctness. 
Inquiring the way, a man who did not venture to step out into 
the moonlight, answered wonderingly: "Directo, senor," and we 
plunged into the woods again. Dark curtains of silence were 
ever opening stealthily before and always closing tightly behind 
me as I proceeded towards the great mystery, and I can assure 
you I did not feel that my chances of discovering the secret of 
ancient Mayas were at all good. Almost asleep in the saddle, 
seeing nothing, hearing nothing, I had reached a slight rise in 
the trail when suddenly the forest opened wide and there — dead 
ahead, solemn and pre-historic — stood the temple-crowned 
pyramid of Chichen Itza, a noble and impressive monimient, 
a glimmering marvel in the moonlight. 

No other sight could have moved me to the same extent. 

Instinctively I straighened up in the saddle out of respect 
to its unknown architect, and in a moment stopped my horse 
to make quite sure that it was there and that I was not dreaming. 
Yes it was there, and gazing to the right and left I found that 
I was in the vast Ball Court. There was the Temple of the Jaguars 



19 

and El Caracol, while The Building with the Many Columns, 
The Nunnery, the House of the Dark Writings, and others I 
had read about, surely could not be far away. But El Castilo, 
as the great pyramid is called, was enough. It was simply stag- 
gering in its magnificence. 

My boy caught up all too soon and trotted by without a 
glance at the mighty monuments erected by his remote ancestors. 
Awed and overwhelmed, I reluctantly followed through a short 
piece of woods by a wattled settlement, and in a moment found 
myself in the walled cattle yard or corral of an old Spanish plan- 
tation — back in comparatively modem times — back in the land 
of the living, where a bright light burned within a tall doorway, 
which opened out onto a great raised and arcaded porch. And 
though I was not expected, the first question Mr. Thompson 
asked was: "What news have you of the uprising?" while his 
second thought was to introduce me to Don Juan Martinez and 
his son. 

Mr. Edward H. Thompson is a hospitable, rugged and 
resourceful New Englander who has spent over a quarter of a 
century in exploration work while Don Juan was the custodian 
of ruins, a native gentleman of many accomplishments, who 
upon acquaintance proved to be a scholar, an idealist and a man 
of vast spiritual energy, and who according to no less an authority 
than Dr. George Byron Gordon of the Archaeological Museum 
of the University of Pennsylvania, is the logical man to decipher 
the hieroglyphics and pictographs carved with orderliness and 
regularity on these, and on other ruins, in uncounted ruined 
Central American towns and cities — ruins, indeed, which simply 
reek with reptilian ornament of the sacred snake, — a distinct 
type of ornament which has been employed with great skill 
and endless variety. Sometimes, indeed, the entire form of a 
structure, as in the case of the House of the Snail or as in the 
undulations of the enclosing ridges of the terraced pyramid, is 
wholly reptilian. But I was, for the moment, interested more 
in the present than in the past, more in creature comfort than in 
conundrums, and hence gave my attention to my immediate 
surroundings. 

The plantation house where Mr. Thompson still lived had 
been dismantled because of the general unrest. This fact made 
little difference to me, however, for I was requested to sleep in 
the "guest house." After a couple of hours under the lamp- 



20 

light, hours during which the moon had retired, I found it unpleas- 
antly dark outside, and, escorted across the damp turquoise 
grass to a little hut in an orange grove, I felt as if I was being 
lured into the very heart of a deadly jungle, a feeling not a little 
uncomfortable. The hut was the "guest house." It was a palm- 
thatched, wattled room with double doors opposite one another 
and no windows. Therefore happy was I to have the company 
of my youthful guide, although alas! he soon indicated as he 
imdressed (that is, removed his sandals) that it would be pleas- 
anter to sleep with the doors wide open. And then I was not 
so happy, for I had not the courage to refuse, even though visions 
of snakes, jaguars, armadillos and hostile Indians began to swarm 
my brain, for we were on the very edge of the unsubdued region 
where wholesale massacres had taken place within comparatively 
recent times and moreover I might remark, quite incidentally, 
also, that the last two proprietors of this very plantation, together 
with their families had been massacred too. Finally, however, 
I fell asleep, dreaming uneasily of a fat tarantula up in the thatch 
right over my head and of several garapata burrowing under 
my skin, but when I awoke it was light, and I knew my fears 
to be groundless. 

En deshabille, I crossed to another hut there to enjoy a 
much needed shower bath. How good the water felt running 
down my spine! how refreshing! I stepped aside to soap myself 
all over and then the water stopped — stopped for good and all! 
Have you ever been in the Garden of Eden dressed only in a suit 
of soap? It's a queer sensation if you have not, especially as the 
soap begins to harden and you realize that you are in a waterless 
country. I went back to the shelter and tugged and pulled at 
the chain controlling the uncertain water supply but all in vain. 
Next I walked about the orange grove recalling a quotation 
from the Third Chapter of Genesis as I plucked an orange, and 
after the first bite, sauced with soap, — cast it from me right- 
eously — for I was in a snaky country, and had read about the 
beguiling serpent. At length, after parading hither and yon 
much to the amazement of some Indian children, I found my 
boy at last, who hurried off to the Moorish noria (startling reminder 
of the Spanish Arabs) and soon returned with two buckets of 
water suspended from a coolie's yoke with which he doused me 
off, and then I put on some looser and more conventional gar- 
ments and presented myself for breakfast. 



21 

So many competent authorities have described the ruins 
that I am going to describe merely the general aspect of the scene, 
which can be expressed by simply saying, a lot of grey piles scat- 
tered in the woods. Several of the units are large and impressive 
but the city is never visible as a whole. From the top of the 
monastery I sat alone one night in the strange tropical moonlight 
and gazed out over wave upon wave, and sea upon sea of tree- 
tops, with here and there a grey spot denoting one of the larger 
ruins, those masses being all that could be seen, yet somehow 
or other, the piles linked themselves together in my imagination 
and became a vast and impressive composition. But it was all 
imagination, nevertheless, for even from the top of El Castillo 
in broad day light, one gets no idea of anything but the immediate 
surroundings, and yet the dead city is two miles square. 

I said I would only describe the general aspect of the place, 
but that involves an impression, so at the risk of being tedious! 
I must record my impression of its structures collectively. 

^ It is an architecture brimming over with ideas— a purely 
indigenous architecture in which one central thought is brought 
out in a hundred different ways. In it associated ideas rich in 
miplication and abounding in suggestion crowd one another, 
scene after scene, act after act, as if these story telling structures 
had stood all these years waiting to inspire some great composer— a 
magnificent background for an entirely new opera— and indeed, 
why not for a new Aida? 

In some ways, the Sacred Zenote is the object of greatest 
interest at Chichen Itza, though except for its raised approach 
it is at present devoid of any trace of the handiwork of man. 
It is a pit over 200 ft. in diameter with a sheer drop of 70 feet 
to the surface of a pool the color of jade, and which unlike most 
zenotes is completely open to the sky— in fact, the only water 
open to the sky that I saw anywhere during my travels in Yucatan ! 
We are told that in the dim, dim past beautiful young maidens 
were cast into this pool to appease the anger of strange gods. 
Mr. Thompson explained with singular acuteness and charm that 
a great cortege led by priests in gorgeous feathered robes marched 
to the weird accompaniment of the twittering of flutes, the beating 
of tom-toms, and the jangle of brass against metal. "In a cloud 
of incense the drugged maidens were going joyously to their 
fate," he was saying and then in the next breath, coming back 
to Christian times he was telling how he once told a little priest 



22 

that he had removed the skeletons of ninety young virgins from 
this zenote, to which the "oily little man of God" remarked 
laconically, "it was a very foolish waste of virgins." 

Space will not permit me to describe the Green Grotto nor 
even a single edifice, while a whole volume would be required to 
record my impressions of Chichen Itza. I must therefore hurry 
on to other scenes and sounds. 

At the end of nearly a week, which took me constantly 
back to the far-off days of a little known civilization, but yet 
to one, little as it is understood, which was nevertheless a civili- 
zation of unquestioned authority and power, you may next think 
of modern me leaving Chichen Itza with Don Juan and his son 
in a volan. 

A volan is a lumbering, primitive two-wheel vehicle no more 
comfortable to travel in than an army tank. Suspended between 
its two large wheels is a low hooded litter which sways and pitches 
back and forth as the heavy wheels grind and slip over uneven ledges 
and boulders, tossing one about in cozy confusion. I am told 
the very young prefer it to "buggy ridin." However that may be, 
I crawled in gaily, and in trying to be jocular, I called back to 
my host: "I feel like Montezuma," and he laughingly shouted 
after us as we lurched over the first ledge: "You'll feel like hell 
before you get to Tzitas." And so I did. 

Merida, the beautiful, was simply enchanting in gala attire as 
I found it to be on my return. It had been transformed during 
my absence to celebrate the defeat of the United States! The 
ships had sailed away from Vera Cruz and all Mexico rejoiced. 
Unparalleled feats of valor had been reported, and Carranza 
had cabled "his" governor to spare no expense in celebrating 
the victory. You have seen many fetes but never could you 
have seen a fiesta half so beautiful as this one. The Plaza de 
la Independencia was gay with bunting and paper lanterns in 
addition to the usual display of blossoms, while pink oleanders, 
green acacias and fiery hibiscus blooms tucked artfully in among 
the coils of hundreds of heads of blue-black hair or in some of 
the men's straw hats rivalled the larger clusters growing under 
electric lights against the soft velvet of the deep, blue-black 
sky. Hundreds of Mestitzas, arm in arm, three and four and even 
five abreast all garbed in snow-white hiupillias, richly embroidered 
and heavy with lace, were strolling around the band stand in one 
direction. Hundreds of mestitzos in equally fresh, duck or linen 



23 

suits, were strolling, often hand in hand, around them in the 
other direction, while the elite in a double line, driven in open 
victorias, gay coaches and costly automobiles, slowly circled 
the outer rim of the Plaza in opposite directions, also, in order 
that they, too, might see and be seen; while still beyond, under 
the quaint, colorful and brightly illuminated arcades there was 
drinking and laughter. And over all this luxurious life the inter- 
mittent bursting of rockets enhanced the glory of the stars; — 
and over and above, below and among the big, soft, white stars 
was an infinite sky and an atmosphere like the breath of heaven. 
Flowers and fire works! cigars and cigarillos! music and mestitzas, 
will I ever again know such a night ! 

The heavy sound of tramping men next added another 
note to the celebration. First it was tramp, tramp, tramp and 
then shuffle, shuffle, shuffle as the sandal-footed troops came 
on, bristling with flashing bayonets, which soon were gleaming 
under the trees all the way around the Plaza. Then followed a 
a bombardment of Roman candles from the roof of the Jefatura 
which was answered by a counter-fire from the roof of the Cathe- 
dral opposite and finally both joined in a tremendous cannon- 
ading in which thousands of new stars and comets, the latter 
moving in gracefully arching orbits, met at the zenith, exploded, 
and fell hissing to the ground in a rich, warm rain of gold. 

After the Ohs! and Ahs! from the crowd had subsided; 
softly and slowly, almost inaudibly, the band started to play 
La Golandrina — the plaintive good-night song of Mexico. But 
no one sang. Strange to say its heart -throbbing music induced 
no such demonstration. On the contrary everyone gradually 
became absorbed in his or her own private thoughts. What 
was a revolution and the ending of a little war with the Gringoes 
compared with what they were thinking of? And yet they had 
to keep tune. It was involuntary. So gradually, as the music 
melted into the scented air, I could hear a soft swish of silk rebosos, 
a tuneful cadence from high-heeled sandals, and as the last extreme 
of the melody was reached, mingling with both, a sound of rhyth- 
mic breathing which came equally from the men moving in one 
direction and the women moving in the other, and which increased 
in suppressed intensity as the dreamy melody brought the right 
couples mysteriously together in the all-satisfying realm of its 
own grand finale. And thus ended another day filled with ideas 
and local color, a garden scene I could never hope to reproduce. 



24 

A few hours later the leaders of the insiirrection were stand- 
ing in front of a blank wall: you might have heard a crash of 
musketry and then in a few minutes you might have seen the 
sun once more beginning to smile on lovely Merida through 
streaks of blood. But why dwell upon blood, terror and tears 
when everything else in nature and town was so beautiful ? 

Notwithstanding incidents of this kind, Merida is a cosmo- 
politan forward-looking place. The city is to Yucatan what 
Paris is to France. All the patriarchal life on her scattered, 
vast plantations is centred and modernized there, and moreover 
when Merida has been allowed to govern herself she has demon- 
strated her ability to deal both wisely and honestly with vast 
civic problems. The modernizing of Merida, for example, with 
the eradication of yellow fever and a partial extension of her 
system of education were achievements of the first magnitude 
that but few of the best governed cities of the world have ever 
surpassed, but unfortunately she is not always permitted to 
be self-governing, and hence "voluntary loans" and other auto- 
cratic demands, with "fuselado" as the probable alternative, 
have a tendency to make life there a little volatile. 

But on the other hand being considerably over a century 
older than Philadelphia, Merida has had time to travel and learn. 
Allow me to illustrate. A native gentleman who speaks four 
languages fluently — a rich amateur using the word in its french 
sense, was showing me a few of his treasures. We were in the 
library of his town house. "The only other copy of this book 
is in the British Museum," he remarked unostentatiously. Or 
again, in his lofty dining room as we were passing a cabinet he 
remarked quite simply: "those are sample plates from sets of 
china made in Dresden, Dalton, Limoge, etc., during the past 
two hundred years for different branches of my family. Or once 
still again, Don Juan took me to another and an even larger 
house, where we asked permission from its owner to spend a 
night at one of his distant haciendas. He was a smartly-dressed, 
alert, soft -voiced, exquisite and urbane young man who spoke 
English perfectly. "When do you go?" he asked as if we were 
going to our own and not his hacienda. 

"With your favor, we start tomorrow," said Don Juan. 

"Go when you like," said the young haciendado, making 
an obeisance. 

"Mil gracias, Senor," said Don Juan. 



25 

"A thousand thanks," I echoed, and then with a bow that 
was magnificent he bowed us out into a great stone-vaulted 
corridor, having just time as he recovered his erect posture to 
exchange smiles and familiar finger twiddling with Don Juan, 
before an Indian ser\"ant clanged one fold of the high, heavy, 
old door against the other, leaving us in the patio to listen to the 
echoes of echoes bom in Spain when new Grenada meant virtually 
the whole western world and Yucatan in fact a seigreury. The 
haciendado was, I think, the owner of pre-historic Uxmal. 

At any rate his country seat, and it was only one of them, 
when we reached it the following afternoon turned out to be 
enormous and truly grand. There must have been at least nine 
lofty arches across its front, supported on slender columns. Unfor- 
tunately the house was dismantled and deserted. However, 
the fat little major domo, or plantation manager, who lived 
nearby, was most anxious to make us comfortable in one of its 
vast dusty apartments, and by way of further sociability had 
his own dinner table set out in the cattle yard in our honor — doubt- 
less neutral territory, belonging neither to his humble home 
not to the grand plantation house itself. 

We sat down in the gloaming, the three of us, and soon two 
little children came up and were presented to me in Spanish. 
By the employment of the international sign language, which 
consisted first of pointing his three fingers towards heaven and 
secondly of rolling his eyes slowly and sadly in the same direc- 
tion — tragic acting! — supplemented at length by the solemn and 
doleful ejaculation, "morte," I gathered that the plump little 
father had once had three other children who, alas ! had left him 
for another world. 

A big Peruvian ranchero wearing a sombrero, a gaudy shirt, 
long leather leggings but no coat, waited on the table. In 
lighting a tall lamp he disclosed dishes and pans filled with highly 
spiced stews, bottles of beer, and warm canned butter from 
Denmark. He was attentiveness itself, running back and forth, 
plying us with food and drink; and as the meal stretched on 
lengthily, now and then a couple of curious but friendly mules 
would amble up, and once when one came close to my chair, 
the considerate Peruvian, who happened then to have a plate 
on edge in each hand batted the inquisitive animal over the nimp 
with one of them, and then laid it gleaming white and hairy 
before me with ceremonious grandeur? 



26 

The following morning we were up before the sun. Lolling 
on a litter strewn with fresh ramon leaves, in a clean volan drawn 
by three little mules, we were driven to Uxmal by an obliging 
Indian. The cold dreary landscape was just beginning to stand 
out in sharp silhouette, as we left the plantation. Five spectral 
bells in two tiers, each depending from its own little stone open 
archway, caught the first rays of the rising sun, while beyond 
two black spots perched on the twisted limb of a guant, dead 
tree came to life lazily against a background of burnished gold. 
I stretched myself too, as they opened their damp wings to dry, 
and like those zopolite I too longed for warmth, though before 
long it was quite warm enough. On our way we passed through 
a few half abandoned henequin fields and by a tousled, thatched 
hut, and just beyond that a squaw returning from some hidden 
zenote bearing a canteros of water. She was followed by two 
beautiful little children wearing holy medals around their necks 
and so little else as to leave no doubt as to their sex. 

In this connection it may be of interest to note that in this 
hot zone, as in other regions of Latin America, but few of the 
parents of the pretty little Indian children are married, nor do 
the upper classes, for the most part, think that it matters. An 
amusing exception, however, is recorded in the case of an old 
Spanish lady who after some years abroad, returned convinced 
that it was her sacred duty to have those on her own plantation 
formally united. Accordingly she began by talking the matter 
over with one of her old house servants, a middle-aged flabby 
soul, asking what arrangements she would like to have made 
for the wedding. 

"I would like to have a pretty veil," said the radiant bride- 
to-be, at once picturing herself as the dominant figure in a beau- 
tiful religious pageant. 

"You shall have a beautiful veil, little Maria Jesus. Is 
there anything else?" inquired the good lady with a mingling 
of motherly solicitude and solemn piety. 

Overjoyed and encouraged by her first success, the betrothed 
thereupon dropped upon her plump knees and exclaimed: "If 
Dona Gil Bias de Santillana will permit it, by all that is holy, 
I beg that I may be permitted to have my four daughters for 
bridesmaids." 

Without showing the least astonishment her mistress repHed 
devoutly : "As heaven has deigned to bless you with four daughters 
I will not object, it will be a blessing from God." 



27 

And accordingly in a few days the four girls followed their 
parents up the chapel aisle, one of them positively enraptured, 
as she carried her own child astride her hip, knowing full well 
that before long she, too, would be wearing a pretty veil on an 
equally grand occasion. 

This may seem a little naive and unconventional to you, 
but it must be remembered that these furtive-eyed peons are 
but children and that even the old men among them have their 
compadres to whom they go regularly for comfort and advice. 
Uxmal has no Sacred Zenote and in other respects is second 
to Chichen Itza, though to me it proved quite as interesting, 
perhaps because more ruined buildings could be seen at once 
from the simimit of its twin pyramid, and also perhaps, because 
they are grouped upon a more orderly plan. 

A typical structure in either city, or for that matter in a 
score of other places, at first glance recalls the sculptured ruins 
of Indo-China or Java, but upon closer observation one finds 
the Maya to be a much more highly conventionalized art. Indeed 
it is as carefully conventionalized, as highly emotional, as won- 
derfully imaginative, as poignantly inspiring, as any architecture 
in the world. One hesitates to use the word spiritual for fear 
of being misunderstood, but from the Maya point of view, it 
was preeminently spiritual, poignantly poetic, magnificently 
intellectual. 

You must not forget that something more than centuries 
separates us from the ancient Mayas. And I did not forget, 
for in that dazzling December sunlight I tried to surrender myself 
to their point of view; tried to forget the imagined superiority 
of our own restless skyscrapers, congested cities and flimsy 
half-hearted churches, for those ancient Maya buildings each 
had four finished elevations, which alone impressed me mightily; 
while most of them stood upon special terraces, and all had a 
wonderful air of sublime calm— a severe calm and a fine presence. 
This is majesty. 

The sardonic words of Pugin, the great Gothic architect, 
came rushing to my mind: 

"They built a kirk upon the strait 
Like auld Westminster Abbey 
Then they thought the Lord to chate 
They built the back part shabby." 



28 

"Yes, we can certainly do that sort of thing better nowadays" 
I mused. Then I thought of Macaulay's New Zealander on the 
ruins of London Bridge, and congratulated myself heartily on 
having something infinitely superior to contemplate. Neither 
London nor New York, even with their structures at their very 
best, let alone in ruin, could possibly evoke such awe-inspiring 
feelings as these mightly ruins. 

Their infinite repose recalled the architecture of ancient 
Egypt; but it is a much more savage and a much more modest 
architecture. In its embellishment, for example, the human 
form is nearly always subordinated to the super-human serpent, 
while in Egypt, as far as I can recall, the human form is nearly 
always dominant — the man in the beast is always the directing 
force. Compare for instance the reptilian Turtle of Quirigua 
with the hrmian Colossi of Memnon. There is repose and dignity 
in those great seated figures facing the river Nile, but in the 
jungle-ridden Turtle there is life ! 

Moreover throughout Central America, it seems to me that 
the modest Maya has left many strange forms vibrant with life 
more than any carvings I know of in Egypt. True, many are 
not very large, delicate or subtle, certainly not so fine as the 
sensitive incised pictographs and ideographs of Egypt, but to 
me they represent an energy, an eloquence, a coiling, biting, 
squeezing force combined with an inscrutable repose, a calm in 
which strength is not relaxed (so typical of the snake they wor- 
shipped) that I could think of nothing more sublime (of course, 
having drifted back in spirit to the Maya cycle, uninfluenced 
by winged and haloed human forms, where I was able to think 
in terms apart from the Christian era). Moreover, it has become 
my belief that without such a sense of detachment it is quite 
impossible to understand or appreciate an art that springs from 
an ardent belief far stronger and more consiuning than that 
which rears our flimsy places of worship today. Therefore as an 
impartial architect, I ask you to look though my archaic lenses — 
barbarous lenses if you will — ^look at the well-balanced facades 
of Uxmal. From a purely modern, academic point of view they 
defy criticism; their unknown architects' sense of dignity and 
scale was marvelous! Note, for instance, how well the individual 
stones are bonded into the walls and yet how the vast reptilian 
design pierces and penetrates that very wall, twining and inter- 
twining along its length in a manner that makes it quite impos- 



29 

sible to say which is pure ornament and which the supporting 
structure itself. Surely there is no architecture in the world at 
once so highly conventionalized and so replete with meaning. 
(So bedeviled with strange deities, if you still cling to your own 
era, and its limited horizon !) No architecture in which a consist- 
ent theme has been adhered to and worked out in every detail 
with such imaginative skill and ardent belief; super-ardent 
is not too strong a term to coin for the occasion. They believed 
in the serpent, those barbarous founders of the Maya Empire. 
It was an all-divine concept to them and not a "me und Gott" 
working agreement presided over by men masquerading as angels 
and seraphs. 

From the great terraced pyramid at Chichen Itza, marked 
by nine undulations in the bodies of the four great serpents stretch- 
ing from its top to its base, representing the nine divisions of 
the Maya calendar, down to the richly intricate mouldings in 
many dark vaulted interiors the rattles, fangs and teeth of 
snakes have been conventionalized and used, as I have said before, 
with marvelous skill and knowledge — serpents single and inter- 
twined, feathered serpents and scaly serpents have been used 
in endless variety with here and there other forms, often human, 
but only introduced as mere accessories. "What does it all mean? 
How are we ever going to learn its full significance?" I asked 
Don Juan, and he replied with a wise smile: 

"Ask the snakes." 

It is quite true that the Mayas were better designers than 
builders, better sculptors than architects, but as artists recording 
their ideals in an entirely germain and indigenous manner their 
work has probably never been excelled. As yet we may only 
guess at the deep significance of their work; it is like hunting 
for hidden springs in the bottom of zenotes, but its weird, mass- 
ive repose, its surprising variety of form and its richness of com- 
position, often quite academic, makes it, if not altogether beautiful 
to blind, heedless modern eyes, yet truly wonderful to any impartial 
and thoughtful observer. 

You may go deep into the legends and mythology of the 
Mayas and learn little. At first glance you see it all, like exploring 
a zenote, but in both cases the little you actually see the more 
your curiosity is excited. The deeper you look the more myster- 
ious and interesting it becomes. And even then you gain no 
true perception, and thus, if you venture to talk upon what 



30 

you may have glimpsed or guessed and more particularly if you 
venture to write down your hurried observations as I am now 
doing you are almost sure to be accused of describing something 
unreal if not positively false. 

So here goes: believe it or not as you choose. My curiosity 
had been excited and I could not leave Yucatan without trying 
to learn the secret of its ancient people. I knew those secrets 
were concealed somewhere underground, while I likewise knew 
that under a modest little barber shop on Sixty-first Street, 
in the city of Merida, there was a zenote as small or as endless 
as I cared to make it. 

"But we do not bathe in zenotes at night," — the barber 
tried to make me understand; "it is very dark down there," 
he explained by closing his eyes tight and pressing his hands 
over them with a shiver. "Mariana," he coaxed, opening his 
hands and eyes suddenly, followed by an enticing smile. 

Undiscouraged I waved my towel bravely and made swim- 
ming motions in the air above his greasy head. But he remained 
obdurate, so I departed but soon returned with two fat little 
soul-candles — the kind that are burned at the head and foot 
of a cofhn — and after showing them to him to the accom- 
paniment of a lavish jingle of coin, he relented saying: "Todos 
somos locos, los unos de los ostros," and ordered his boy to 
show me the way. I followed wondering what "locos" meant. 
I said: "mil gracias." 

With a lighted candle I followed my dusky torch-bearer out 
into the dim back yard and down a steep rock-cut flight of steps. 
Down, down, downward we went into the bowels of the earth, 
countless steps multiplying in the darkness ahead of us — they 
were, however, broken before long at a landing which suggested 
a rude pulpit in a cavernous cathedral. It was an observation 
point worthy of Dante and Virgil, while ahead was the reflection 
of countless steps penetrating fathomlessly into the kind of world 
Gustave Dore used to like to illustrate. Turning I saw that the 
real steps continued their descent to the right and left going 
towards the remote and dismal ends of a vast subterranean 
horseshoe. 

Making a sign to the boy to remain with his light on the 
landing I descended to the left — Down, down, downward again 
I went until I found myself on a limestone ledge raised only a 
few inches above the glassy surface of the water. 



31 

Having still some human instincts left I discreetly glued 
my candle on to a shelf of rock, as high above the youngster's 
reach as possible, and without further precautions undressed 
and plunged in. 

Under water I quickly crossed the gulf that separates modem 
from pre-historic Yucatan and when I reached the surface I 
was in the ancient cosmos. I felt the way men felt eons ago 
when reptiles were dominant and men were modest. Filled, 
therefore, with diffidence and modesty, it naturally pleased me 
immensely to be received at once by two golden serpents who 
had the manners of courtiers, and it was nice also to feel that 
they did not regard me either as an interloper or as an 
inferior. 

As I swam on swiftly they coiled gracefully over the waves 
I made, and in the friendliest fashion led me into a dark cave 
where at first I could see nothing, and moreover where pausing 
to listen I could hear nothing save the lapping of little waves 
against unseen walls. However, face downward I was surprised 
to find that it was not at all dark beneath me, as a subdued radiance 
shone up through the clear water from a phosphorescent bottom 
disclosing a couple of sightless fish gliding about serenely some 
ten or fifteen feet below, while, listening intently, a strange orches- 
tration like the reverberations in a great shell lured me on. It 
was like bathing in a halo. 

Head up and swimming around a bend I saw that I was being 
led to a great city swarming with life and humming with industry. 
The city stood in a waterless country. It was spacious, opulent, 
grand and monumental. "What supports such a population? 
What keeps those people alive?" I said to myself quite mystified. 
"Why, the pure water from the zenoties, physically, and their 
faith, spiritually," one of the serpents answered instantly, much 
to my surprise. 

How on earth, or how under the earth, had he guessed? 
I supposed I had been only thinking. At any rate he made me 
feel in some intangible way the magic of his prescience, and that 
I myself had gradually and insensibly changed. Above all he 
encouraged me to believe that my zeal was being rewarded. 
I was swimming in a heart-changing, eye-opening bath — in an 
illuminated bath, and beneath its waters, still further under- 
ground, there was light! The spell of the serpent was upon me — 
what, I wondered, is that sweet and distant music? 



32 

But without waiting for me to recover from my surprise 
and not giving me time to frame a question, the other snake, 
who as yet had said nothing, proceeded with a knowing smile. 

"Watch their leaders, for we shall pass near to them though 
they will not see us. Watch their priests, their men of genius, 
imagination and intellect. Watch their sculptors, their workers 
in precious metals and in wonderful, beautiful jade. Note that 
they sing as they work. Yes, now watch those two, over 
yonder, working in blue-hued jade. Note the patience, the care 
and the enthusiasm with which they work." 

"Why did he stress the arts I wondered? They both knew 
my mission. Instinctively they divined everything." 

"Their lives," he went on with a comprehensive sweep 
of his long shiny neck and pointed fiat head, "are not spent 
like yours" (what could he know of mine?) "in a state of flux. 
They are steady and staunch. They have steadfast ideals and 
hence their work illuminates and beautifies their lives. They know 
how to express their emotions in their art, and hence their art 
is not copied — is not a reflection of other people and other times — 
but is a sincere and ardent expression of their own lives. Indig- 
enous and modem, it gives them peace and happiness." 

Seeing that he paused for an answer and beginning to feel 
a little apprehensive, I replied, trying to appear at my ease; 
"the wisdom of the serpent indeed!" but my attempt at graceful 
flattery failed miserably. 

"What they, "emphasizing the personal pronoun with unpleas- 
ant distinctness, and ignoring any views I might have had, "work 
fo r that they believe in, and hence it is spiritually worth while," 
he continued haughtily, gazing at me hard to see if I had followed 
his full meaning. 

Being uncertain whether I had or not, and wondering whether 
he was not getting ready to frighten or insult me, I turned on my 
back in an attempt not to appear too much impressed and gazed up 
above; but there, much to my regret, I did not find the simple 
rocky surfaces I had hoped to rest my eyes upon while I might 
steal a moment to think the situation over; on the contrary 
with new clairvoyant eyes I detected above me a depth and 
subtlety that was simply indescribable. There was no mistaking 
it. Everything overhead was serpentine. I was surrounded and 
overwhelmed by the magic of the snake! I saw it all! I had 
been led into this water-cave to be taught a lesson. And that 



33 

lessoQ was that I should be made to feel the power of the super- 
human serpent. 

Never had I seen such vaulting. There were fascinating, 
coiling, constricting, pulsating lines in every rib and every web 
of groining, while some of the forms and surfaces were delicately 
edged with milky-blue, creamy-purple and chalky-green like old 
jade, and strange beyond the imagination of man. 

Why, they were making me see through their own lenses! 
They were endowing my surroundings with a strange enchant- 
ment ! And it was being done to outwit me ! As I turned on my 
chest and struck out again I felt possessed, and knowing that 
some reply was expected, in my fright, and with my faculties 
over-strained, I could only mutter; "Yes" and that without a 
particle of combative force or pride. He had me! 

"Art may spring from any civilization," he proclaimed 
harshly, in a tone which implied that upon him alone depended 
my life or death, "even yours; but a rare and vital art like this 
must be lived to become a sincere reflection of the life of a people." 

"Surely," I responded even more weakly than before. I 
was terrified. I had had enough and wanted to escape, but he 
held me with blazing eyes which were now as cruel as his drool- 
ing jaws. 

"They," he preached at me categorically, "have selected 
the serpent for their guide in life and it thus follows logically 
as their motif in art. " I devoutly hoped that he was through but he 
was not. After a dreadful pause he continued "Atlas, bearing 
the world, stands upon a turtle which in turn is supported on a 
serpent. Remember that — on a serpent;" and having said these 
words, he looked sternly at me, and began to withdraw in an 
overpowering, lofty and imperious manner. His companion, 
who had adopted a supercilious air, withdrew also and was soon 
out of sight, enabling me to keep my eyes now riveted solely 
on the speaker who quietly wriggled off in great broken undula- 
tions, which became less and less distinct as the water flattened 
out. They — the broken parts of him — undulated and zig-zagged 
over the surface in golden z's, fading away smaller and smaller, 
and becoming more and more detached as they receded. And 
finally with the last z which illuminated a flash of cruelty in his eyes 
and a mocking smile upon his ugly flat face, he \^anished leaving, 
for just an instant, a tiny zero on the surface above his head 
thus making it doubly clear that he had been mocking me — tan- 



34 




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36 

talizing me with an enigma and that now he wished me to fully 
realize that his complete disappearance, was as positive and 
final as the last letter of the alphabet. 

All was now dismal, black and empty, and yet I was glad, 
you may be sure, to be alone even though I could see nothing 
in the inky blackness ahead of me, and even though I still clearly 
heard the unpleasant words, "on a serpent" echoing abysmally 
ever fainter and fainter in a series of derisive octaves. 

He had gone. I was becoming myself again. But he might 
attack me from below! 

Chills began to course up and down my spine. The liquid 
halo turned to hell-broth. 

Scalding and quivering with fear I struck out madly — madly 
and desperately making the water hiss and sizzle as I surged and 
splashed through it. 

After an eternity — how I struggled ! I came panting within 
sight of the flickering candles. 

Exhausted I turned on m}^ back. I began to breathe more 
easily. And gradually, floating out of the darkness, little by 
little, regained my composure. 

It had all been tremendously real. Vibrating with excite- 
ment I began quickly to review what I had learned. 

"Well!" I said to myself, much relieved and half resigned; 
"I have spoken with a jealous god, a shining spirit of good or 
evil, who conducted me to his sacred shrine and there deigned 
to give me just a hint of what lies back of Mayan art — a hint, 
moreover, that fully confirms my own ideas, and if he did not 
tell me what neither Don Juan nor Mr. Thompson could tell me, 
namely, who were the ancient Mayas? where did they come 
from? and what does their strange art mean? at least in the 
sub-lacterene light of his zenote I have seen and heard enough 
to give me a good idea." 

"Once more I am reminded, 'that it is not the gilt that 
makes the god but the worshipper;' once more I am reminded 
what architects were and may become again; once more, and 
for the thousandth time, I am reminded what clients were and 
may be, when I think of the patience, the sympathy, the under- 
standing and the consistent and untiring devotion to an ideal 
always displayed by Secretary Root and Director Barrett when 
anything was suggested to add character, meaning and power 
to the Pan-American theme. Yes," I said to myself, quite happy 





Center motifs for two panels of the 

JADE FENCE 

The upper one is a reproduction of the 
well-known, Long- Nosed God found in 
Yucatan and the lower an adaptation 
from a Jaguar Head on a Disk Shaped 
Stone found in Salvador. 

The first finished samples of these 
modern adaptations were made at the 
Enfield Pottery & Tile Works, in turquoise 
blue with an antique finish, but later 
specimens made by the same firm have 
had the blue slightly fused with emerald 
and amethyst and high lighted with just 
a suggestion of reddened gold, thus making 
them quite unique as objects of ceramic 
art. Both Mr. Bass, the sculptor, and 
Mr. Allen, the potter, have entered into 
the spirit of this unusual undertaking with 
the utmost intelligence and enthusiasm. 



again, "I will go them with this new idea confident of their 
support." 

Slowly and thoughtfully I swam through the shadowy, vaulted 
aisle back into the welcome candle-Hght, where with obvious light 
above me and mysterious Hght beneath me, I turned that idea 
over and over in my mind. To be sure, the phantom city and 
its spirit art-workers had vanished, and my sinister guides, 
thank the Lord, had vanished too; but I had nevertheless gotten 
what I had come for — an entirely new theme for the embellish- 
ment and emichment of the Pan-American Garden. 

"Yes! I have accompHshed what I came for," I said to my- 
self, feeling proud now that I had made good my escape. "I've 
got an idea that will make the Pan-American Garden unlike any 
other garden in the whole wide world!" I exclaimed aloud, and 
hurried to describe it in English to the boy who had been patiently 
waiting for me, candle in hand, high on the rock-cut stair. "I 
will finish," I rushed on, "the empty panels in the marble fence 
that is now there with a reptilian design full of forms suggesting 
strange memories and queer experiences, and it shall be a pierced 
illuminated design to glow at night — all in jade; — in azure terra- 
cotta made to look like jade— milky blue fused with green and 
lavender. Its panels shall each be different, vvhile the series — 
harmonized and conventionaHzed — shall reproduce a host of 
Maya forms, a veritable museum of aboriginal art, and above 
all, I will strive to make it a museum showing what the Mayas 
loved and how they were dominated, fascinated and hypnotized — 
in short an out-of-door museum of the snake-worshippers art! 
It can be done. And how better indeed can I suggest their belief, 
illusions, dreams, then by illuminating my reproductions of their 
idols in a strange and subtle manner; — ^mysterious and eery, like 
the light arising from the bottom of this zenote. Ha, ha! I've got 
it;" I exclaimed with increasing enthusiasm, "and thus it shall 
be made more alluring, more interesting, more eloquent, more 
beautiful by night than by day — interior illumination — soul, as 
the divines say!" 

The boy peered down at me in astonishment, and doubtless 
recalling what his father had said, in trying to induce me to post- 
pone my swim, shook his head sadly at me, as people do to those 
who are locoed. But I only laughed, and thus occupied; — floating 
idly on my back, with my ears under water, I soon found myself 




Design for one of a pair of terminal features to end the 
JADE FENCE 

Lights concealed beneath the head dress will throw a green glow down around the face and 
out through the eyes of the figure. As in the intervening panels of the marble fence, this 
composition will be executed in jade-colored, hand-made terra cotta. 

This monstrous composition is composed of two motifs the Serpent-Skirted Goddess — 
a stone statue found in what is now Central Mexico, and being "one of the most striking 
examples of barbaric imagination," to quote Spinden; on whose head, formed by two serpents' 
heads meeting end to end, is seated a reproduction of a figure from a terra-cotta Zapotecan 
Funerary urn found in the modern state of Oaxaca. Spinden states that "the Zapotecan 
Indians attained to a high degree of civilization, but a study of their art shows that they 
were greatly indebted to the Mayas for decorative motifs."' A study of this particular face 
suggests that they might also have been greatly indebted to the late "T. R." 



40 

drifting opposite, and almost under the aperture through which 
I had come down. 

And there, gazing up and out into the tropic night — far, far 
beyond either modern or prehistoric Yucatan, I beheld with a 
feeling of gladness, increasing to genuine triumph, the same stars 
that were then looking down upon you. And it was good — how 
good it was! to change guides — snakes for stars — and thus 
guided — all danger over — to feel and to know that I would soon 
be back with you in the land of practical reality where dreams 
are supposed to dissolve and fade away, and yet where despite 
this too popular belief, some golden dreams, when properly nour- 
ished, cystallize— aye, and in a very glowing sense, not only do 
they crystalhze and come true, but as true and tangible reahties, 
if sufficiently beautiful, often become inspirations, joys — and joys 
that last forever. 



